


Why the Siren Sings

by LockerMice



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Evil Scientists - Freeform, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Siren!Anya, Sirens, ranya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 11:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11599575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LockerMice/pseuds/LockerMice
Summary: A short one shot of a Siren Anya and Human Raven, but not in an overly romantic manner. This is not a happy romantic story, it's not even a happy story. I'm bad at summaries, but this has been stuck in my head for a while so I wrote it and published it on the internet (probably not the best idea).





	Why the Siren Sings

Raven had never heard Anya Sing. Sure, she’d heard Anya sing, but never Sing. See, singing didn’t mean anything, it was a handful of notes laid out over a tune, maybe some flair and frill and trill, and presto, she’s singing Abba. However Singing was something different. For Anya, Singing was something incredibly different to yelling out Dancing Queen at two in the morning, or a half whispered lullaby after a long day for Tris. Heck, even the wordless tunes that she hummed to Raven after a nightmare weren’t Singing. Sure, those wordless strains of music spoke of storms and waves and sun through the water, and currents in the sun, and whispering foam and cawing birds, and ships that sail the seas. Of lake weed, and shimmering scales, of speed, and flight, of strong masts, and bright lightening that drops from the sky, of whales and trout, and everything in between, but even those midnight comforts were not Singing.

No, Raven had never heard Anya Sing. Not until the day where men in suits came to the door with warrants and paperwork. No, not even that day. Not on the day when Raven went to sleep safely cradled in Anya’s arms, with Tris wandering in dreamland in the next room, and waking up to an eerily quiet house, cold sheets, an empty child’s bed, and a letter on Anya’s pillow, wrapped in a necklace. Anya didn’t Sing on the day that the men in suits came back, her voice sounding as if she was in the room next to Raven, but in fact she was safe under the crashing waves, no, she didn’t even make a sound when they ripped apart Tris’s room.

The day that Raven heard Anya Sing was windy, and the sun was too bright, and not warm enough. She heard her Sing all the way from the kitchen, and it sounded like she was standing right beside her, arms wrapped around her waist, lips tickling the shell of Raven’s ear. She Sang, and Raven raced up the stairs to look for her. Her voice was in Tris’s room, now put back together, and it was like she was there, sitting on the floor with the small girl, singing and playing clapping games. Her voice was in their bedroom, and it was like she was sitting on the window seat, reading with her book resting on her knees, hair fluttering slightly in the breeze.

Raven went outside, and it was like Anya was there, kneeling in the dirt, pressing the earth in around the base of a seedling. She was Singing, and Raven had never missed her, and held her as close as she did in that moment. 

Anya wasn’t on the beach, bobbing up and down in the increasing swell, looking like a blonde seal amidst the foam. Her Singing was louder than it had been in the house, Anya had never belonged to Raven, no, not really. She’d always belonged to the water. Still, the truth hurt. Her words were wrapping a web around Raven, a blanket, her arms. The words weren’t there, yet they were, dancing in and out the lilting sounds. They said more about Anya than any of her actions ever had. Her Song told Raven things that she’d already known, things she hadn’t, things she’d suspected, and things she’d never even dreamed about.

Anya wasn’t in the harbour, terrorizing the fishermen, tying nets in knots and stealing sinkers, assaulting tourists with rotting sardines, or empty lobster shells. Of course she wasn’t there, the boas were still out, there was nothing for her to do. Her voice was even louder, like she’d found a microphone. Raven didn’t even know she was crying until a bored looking waitress offered her a serviette, and invited her into the restaurant for some coffee. 

When Raven found Anya, she understood why she’d chosen that particular day to Sing. Anya had hoisted herself as high onto the rocks as she could with her hands bound to a metal rod. Her head was tilted back as she Sang, tears pouring down her face, mixed with seawater.  The bar was new, shiny, as if it had just been bolted in place. Further out, Raven could see a small dinghy, heading away, over the swirling foam that massed over the submerged rocks, towards a larger, even shinier looking ship. Anya was bruised and battered, her tank top hung in tatters, and her bare legs were raw, and bleeding in some places.

But that wasn’t why the siren Sang. No. Anya had chosen that day to Sing because of the other shape hanging like a dead animal from the metal bar. The person was significantly smaller than Anya, dark hair hanging in twisted, gnarled, and tangled ropes over their face, blood trickling own her short legs, collecting in a small hollow in the rock under her. Tris hung lifeless, the sea-stiff ropes digging into small wrists, and next to her Anya hung, her mourning pouring out of her in an endless refrain.

So yes, Raven knew why the Siren Sang. And it wasn’t for anger and lust or anger or hate, but for love, and for  strength, and for grief.


End file.
